


The Lady

by LittleMulattoKitten



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crime Drama, Dark, Dark Comedy, Drama, F/M, Murder Mystery, Psychological Drama, Romance, Serial Killers, Smut, Sort of inspired by Dexter, Thriller, mostly Tom's POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2019-07-27 18:49:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16225136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMulattoKitten/pseuds/LittleMulattoKitten
Summary: Tom Riddle is Hogsmeade's sharpest forensic investigator by day and one of the most confounding serial killers HPD has ever gone up against by night. But when a new serial killer moves to town and starts to taunt 'Voldemort', Tom realizes his secret may be in danger.Detective Granger moves to Hogsmeade to lend her expertise towards the Voldemort and new mystery killer cases, catching Tom's eye almost immediately and providing a delightful distraction from things he really ought to be paying better attention to.But who shall he choose? The fit prodigal detective or his mysterious fellow predator?





	1. Going Through Changes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weestarmeggie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weestarmeggie/gifts).



Tom never planned on having an accomplice. It added a variable to his secret pastime that could get him caught, but he also hadn’t expected to meet another serial killer in his lifetime, especially not because they happened to go after the same target on the same night.

She’d been in the news. She’d distracted the media from him and he laid low, just to see what they’d make of her.

They still thought she was a man, of course. He wanted to know how she wasn’t leaving accidental clues behind. He wanted to know what the few clues, calling cards really, that she did leave behind meant.

The game and the chase was why he worked in forensics by day and hunted down the people who got in his way by night.

Not every night, of course. He had a life. Sort of.

Work was his life. He’d built his reputation. He was one of the best in the field and his position within the HPD gave him just enough authority over the forensics department to keep his extracurricular activities from being traced back to him. He just couldn’t understand how his new...neighbor, for lack of a better term, was so painstakingly tidy with the crime scenes she left behind.

Well, tidy wasn’t exactly the word.

Her style was so methodical that it left a heaviness in the spaces where they found her victims. Like there was silent poetry hanging in the air, waiting for someone smart enough to pick up on the words that weren’t being said. It was art. It was ever changing. Her modus operandi wasn’t as fixed as his. She adapted to suit her targets. It was artistic and clever and maddening.

If he wasn’t killing, he was catching fools unworthy of the fear left in their wake. Husbands who flew off the handle, murdered their entire families, and tried to hide the bodies. Nurses and doctors trying to be angels of death. Serial drunk drivers who always managed to get someone killed, while somehow getting off the hook in court as well. The pitiful copycat killers and those arrogant enough to try and start their serial killing careers in his territory.

The problem with his neighbor is that she came out of nowhere.

In her first five months, she committed six murders. Each different than the last. Every drop of blood splatter was intentional. Every bit of dirt under fingernails of the dead left behind on purpose. No fingerprints. No footprints. No partials. No hairs.  _ Nothing left behind.  _

The only clue, the only hint he’d found that gave him any indication of what and who she was before their run in at the estate of one Gilderoy Lockhart that fated autumn evening, wasn’t really a clue at all. It was just a piece of circumstantial evidence. Something no one at the department gave a second thought. 

She’d struggled when maneuvering one of her victims. Marcus Flint. He’d been a football player, but a larger one. Defense and goalie. And his exercise regimen had been impressive, to say the least. But his autopsy had revealed both pre- and post-mortem bruising along his back and arms that lined up with him being dragged onto the table he’d been found on top of. In pieces. The bruises on his arms had stumped the entire forensics team. They were massive, rounded, and in places hands would’ve been if he’d been dragged, but any hope of getting a shape or size of said hands was eliminated. They hadn’t been able to figure out how the trauma had been delivered either. Something dense, yes, and easy to bring down on someone’s biceps with enough force to paint their arms dark purple and maroon. 

He’d been the only one to wonder if there was more to those bruises than just covering up traces of the killer. Tom had wondered why the bruising was so severe. If  _ he  _ had done the same thing, he’d have only made his handprint impossible to see. But these bruises took up most of Flint’s biceps. There was no telling how big or small the hands that had dragged him onto the table were.

It made his brain itch. Why would a male be particularly worried about a general hand size being discernible? He wouldn’t. But who would?

Someone trying to hide their sex, was what Tom thought.

He’d been right, too, and damn proud of himself for it. But the station had dismissed his theory. They didn’t think a woman was capable of such clinically precise murders. And to be fair, neither had he until Marcus Flint ended up on her radar.

During the sixth month of their mystery killer’s case, his world was shifted once again. Not only was his hunting playground invaded by another, equally clever  _ artist _ , but there was a new addition to the station as well. Captain Dumbledore had sought help outside of their jurisdiction. That help would become the bane of Tom’s existence. The ultimate distraction.

For a while, at least.

Serial Psychology and Forensics Specialist (and  _ Detective _ ) Hermione Granger was brought to his attention a week before she stepped foot in his station. Lieutenant McGonagall had called everyone together, even pulling Tom and his forensics lackeys out of their lab and research spaces to alert them of their new “likely temporary” member of the team.

“Detective Granger was held in high regard while she worked for Scotland Yard,” McGonagall told them, sending severe looks around the room. “We are very fortunate to have the opportunity to work with this incredible young woman, who climbed the ranks faster than any investigator before her, and earned herself the ability to do…frankly, whatever the hell she pleases wherever the hell she goes.”

Tom snorted at that, casting a glance towards Abraxas, who shot him a slightly wide-eyed look in return. 

“Five quid says she’s an uppity toad of a woman,” he whispered.

Tom shrugged, accepting the bet. What was five quid anyway? And if she wasn’t hard on the eyes, it’d be a pleasant surprise. Competence rarely came in pretty packages, in Tom’s experience.

He refocused on McGonagall as she continued speaking. “Detective Granger is technically on an…unofficial leave of absence from Scotland Yard - or at least that’s what Albus wants me to tell you.”

A few chuckled went through the room, and Minerva gave them all a bland smile before turning serious again. “The truth is that the last three cases she solved nearly cost Detective Granger her life, which was still in danger if she’d stayed in London. My hope is that she finds a new home here in Hogsmeade. We could certainly use someone of her caliber.”

When McGonagall’s eyes turned sharply to Tom, he raised his eyebrows, awaiting whatever she had to say. 

“I certainly hope having two savants in forensics won’t cause any problems…” she said slowly. Tom smirked. “Detective Granger will not work under our established chain of command. She will report to me and me alone.” A brow quirked as she continued to stare at Tom. “So play nice.”

“She fit?” Investigator Black asked from the other side of the room. Potter smothered a chuckle as Minerva turned to glare at them both. 

“She’s out of your league…” Minerva said, her tone dripping with false sweetness. Black rolled his eyes as a series of  _ Ooohs  _ and chuckles at his expense swept through the room.

“Detective Granger solved three decade-old cold cases in her first year with Scotland Yard alone, but if that doesn’t impress you, by all means, Google her. Her track record is quite impressive,” Minerva continued. “She joins us Thursday morning. Embarrass me and you’ll be reviewing security footage tapes and doing paperwork with the interns for a month.”

With her final threat delivered, the meeting disbanded, and Tom happily went back to the research tables in the lab after making sure the research groups  _ outside  _ the lab didn’t need him. There was a white board on the back wall with possible names for his  _ neighbor _ , but most of them were pathetic. He just couldn’t come up with anything that would alert his potential playmate to the respect he held for her.

It didn’t help that everyone else still thought she was male, either.

At least he’d been able to make sure his name was of his choosing.  _ Lord Voldemort _ . He’d left the V carved into his first few victim’s skin. When the department tried to name him  _ Valentine _ , he’d left his name painted in blood on the ceiling above one of his victims. And he managed to talk them into calling him by his name in an attempt to “soothe his ego”. They’d believed him. They’d tried to offer him a small token of their respect, hoping he’d get sloppy and get caught.

It was a game he loved to play.

A game that took a vicious turn the night before Detective Granger was due to join their ranks. Another body had been found, but this time, she’d done something new. It was still her work, of that he was certain, even if his colleagues contested the idea. It was too different, they said. It must be a copycat, they implied.

“The cause of death varies from victim to victim,” he said, distracted as he carefully strolled through the crime scene. She’d left a mess this time, which wasn’t usually her MO either, but she’d done it before. The small hotel room was bathed in blood. The carpet soaked crimson and maroon. The color of the bedding indiscernible. The walls splattered. 

“Why switch from sculpting and poetry to painting?” he murmured to himself. The flicks and spots dotting the walls lined up with the deep gashes on the victim’s torso. And she’d left him in a hell of a state. 

“Cormac McLaggen,” Black called into the room. “Went missing Friday night. I recognize him though. He went to Hogwarts.”

Tom hummed to himself. McLaggen didn’t look much like Hogwarts Alumni naked and sliced up on a hotel room bed with his lackluster package out for God and the world to see.

“This one was personal,” he said, still thinking out loud. Only Malfoy seemed to pay him any attention, which wasn’t unusual. Abraxas made a decent soundboard. “To some degree at least. Left exposed. The only way it could’ve been more so was if…” Tom trailed off as he noted something on McLaggens wrists. The blood was so thick and clotted where he dipped into the sheets that Tom had nearly missed it. A snort left him and he glanced down and found a similar situation at the man’s ankles. “Never mind. There’s still rope on his left wrist, and I’m going to guess those abrasions on his ankles are from handcuffs.”

“Kinky,” Abraxas said. 

“Humiliating…” Tom scoffed. “He didn’t get off before he died, I don’t need labs to tell you that. Go ahead and leave a note for Lovegood so she checks his bits in the autopsy, though. I want to know if I’m right.”

Black snorted from the doorway. It amused Tom that he had no interest in entering the room properly, but he supposed this amount of bloodshed wasn’t a typical day in the field for the detective. “That’d be fun to read in the autopsy report.  _ The victim died with a decidedly severe case of blueballs. _ ” He shook his head. “Poor sod.”

Tom gave the room a quick once over. Despite the…painting she’d left them, he could taste poetry in the air. “We’re overlooking something…” he said slowly. The walls were bothering him. The splatters were almost all curved, diagonal swiped that started down -he moved his right hand to his hip- and arced upwards -he extended his arm up and out in the opposite direction, miming the swipes he saw. Some went against the grain of the others. Sloppy, small half-circles. He squinted.

“Has anyone taken pictures from the doorway with the room empty?” he asked, noting the few forensic photographers, and technicians, who perked up at the sound of his voice. “Without anything obstructing the walls?”

When his question was met with silence and shrugged, he shot his team a glare. “Out. All of you. I want wide view, panorama, and close up shots of each wall. Then the normal detailing of the blood formations.”

A rustling crunch of plastic covered shoes and hazard suits grated on his ears as they filed out to let the photographers work in peace for a few moments. The plastic tarp in the hallway, laid down to protect the carpet, was stamped with bloody blotches. It reminded him of using sponge cut outs to paint stupid pictures in primary school. 

Theron Nott was the first of the photographers to approach him, his face drawn and slightly pale. “I dunno how you saw it, Riddle,” he said, “but I think I figured out what you were seeing.”

Tom replaced his gloves before taking the camera from Theron and tapping through the photos he’d taken. He zoomed in on the panorama and sucked in a breath when his hunch appeared to be accurate. Then a wide grin spread across his face.

“She’s mocking us,” he said. His delight made Abraxas, Black, and Nott share a worried glance. “I  _ told  _ you morons she was female.”

Triumph burning in his eyes, Tom turned the digital face of the camera to the side so they could all see it. 

There, written in spiky, flung slashes of blood on hideous olive painted drywall, were the words:  _ I AM YOUR LADY. _

Long after evidence had been documented and labs had been sent off, when Tom had returned home to his flat for the evening with the promise of  _ Detective Granger’s  _ appearance on the horizon, Tom felt his cock stir at the memory of reading those words.

Now how could he welcome his new playmate to the neighborhood?

How would a Lord welcome a Lady to his court? With gifts, of course. 

The playful urge sang in his veins while he waited, plotting and planning in the shower the next day. He couldn’t wait to gloat at the station every time someone corrected themselves when referring to The Lady. 

Now  _ there  _ was a name.

But Lady what? He wanted to know. He hoped she’d tell him. 

Tom might have been so eager to start analyzing the evidence from the night before that he momentarily forgot about Detective Granger. He was briefly stunned into silence when he saw the new arrival shaking hands with Abraxas, who appeared more than a little shaken.

If the woman’s face was half as nice as her skirt-clad arse, Abraxas would still owe him five quid. A quick glance around the room showed most of the single men gawking at their newest addition. Tom was surprised that very few of them were actually trying to hit on the woman.

At least, until Abraxas noticed him walking towards the lab and glanced over her shoulder.

Something about her stare made a shock of nerves jump up his spine. She was confident, capable, not a woman to be trifled with. Hell, she was more intimidating than Minerva when the press was up her arse. She’d intimidated the flirtatious, shameless half of their department in a single morning.

And her polite, gentle expression was a mask, just like the cordial smile he gave her. 

“Detective Granger, I presume,” he said warmly. They shook hands. Her grip wasn’t stiff. It wasn’t weak. She wasn’t trying to prove that she could shake hands like the big boys. She didn’t have a single fuck to give. 

He wanted to make her tick.

“And you must be the forensics lead I’ve been hearing about,” she replied. She even sounded sweet and unassuming, despite the ever-present air of confidence about her. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Investigator Riddle.”

“Please, call me Tom,” he said automatically. “Investigator Riddle is what the press and the petrified interns call me.”

She laughed softly at that. “Hermione,” she said. “Detective Granger can get a tad pretentious as well.”

Tom shot a quick, meaningful glance at Abraxas, who flushed slightly. “Well,  _ Hermione _ , don’t let me keep you from your introductions. I need to get updates from my team after the crime scene reported to us last night. Once you’ve finished your rounds of pleasantries I’d be happy to bring you up to speed?” Spotting Minerva and Sergeant Lupin, he carefully added, “Assuming one of my superiors didn’t plan to do so themselves.”

She followed his gaze, the slight change in her expression almost too quick to notice. Almost. Her brows had started to tighten, then smoothed immediately. No one else would pick up on such a thing, or they’d assume she’d briefly misunderstood something, then quickly caught on. But he knew better.

He hid from the world too.

Something about those two bothered her. He wanted to know why.

“I’ll just double check with Minerva while you meet with your team,” Detective Granger said smoothly. “I think I’ve met everyone who will be in today. But by all means, get settled. The scene is still fresh. A few minutes won’t hurt.”

Tom blinked, then his smile widened. “Not the usual attitude towards a violent murder, if you don’t mind my saying so. It’s a bit refreshing to have someone share my reasoning…”

She glanced at him with a quirked brow and a smirk that held far more than he could decipher. “You can hardly get any good work done if you’re rushing or panicked,” she said. “It’s an emergency situation, yes, but mistakes are made when people try to rush. When you have time to be methodical, you should be.”

Tom’s grin became a genuine, delighted smile. “Welcome to Hogsmeade, Detective.”

She snorted, still smirking, before walking across the room towards Minerva. Abraxas slipped him a fiver while Tom watched her walk away.

“I didn’t expect you to gawk at her too,” Abraxas muttered. 

Tom let his eyes glide over her arse as her hips rocked from side to side, heels clicking on the floor. He’d pay to sink his teeth into that arse if he could. Black whistled  _ Pretty Woman _ as he and Potter walked to the break room. Minerva glared daggers at their backs.

Tom could barely be annoyed by them. He was on the same page.

To Abraxas’ chargin, Tom was humming the song as they slipped into the conference room-turned research hub for his forensics team. There were a few computers along one wall. Whiteboards along the rest. Small clusters of tables throughout the room, and one long table against the wall in the back that was half snack bar, half “piles of shit someone asked the interns to find”. 

Now that their killer had a name, one of his artsy-er minions had written  _ The Lady _ in purple dry erase marker on the board, stylized in a bold, slanted calligraphic font. They’d even drawn a little crown or tiara of some sorts dangling off the  _ T _ . 

He wondered if she would find it cute.

Abraxas, Nott, Avery - who was their primary morgue liaison when Lovegood was gloves-deep in an autopsy-, and Yaxley, his psychology and fellow blood-splatter expert, gathered around the table. Tom gave Abraxas an appreciative nod when the latter slid his personal notes portfolio over the table. 

“Had a feeling you wouldn’t make it to your office before we got started,” he said by way of explanation. “Not that there’s much to report. The Lady may as well be a female Voldemort.”

A small stack of folders was tossed into the middle of the table by Yaxley. “There wasn’t much I could add to his- _ her _ profile since the crime scene was just as free of useful hints as the rest have been.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But there are a few theories I’ve started working on that we may be able to shed some light on.”

Tom took one of the folders and started to skim Yaxley’s notes. 

_ …could be working with or for Lord Voldemort… _

_ …The Lady is confident and self-assured. Doesn’t doubt her ability to evade the authorities… _

_ …circumstantial evidence suggests that The Lady would have to be male, at least in physique. Possibly a Transgender woman… _

_ …if Transgender, Voldemort and The Lady could be the same entity… _

Tom needed tea…or maybe an espresso. He certainly hoped they came up with some better ideas in the next hour. Granted, he had a unique vantage point that gave him more information about their target than the authorities would ever gather on their own, but it was still painful to watch them flounder. 

She was good, but Tom expected that she, like those before her, would make a mistake. Investigator Riddle caught most of the murderers that swept through the city of Hogsmeade. Ironically, Voldemort tended to finish off the rest.

Not that all the bodies were found. Tom disposed of just enough of them that the police hadn’t quite put together that Voldemort was  _ always  _ going after the would-be convicts that managed to escape court without a sentence. 

“Avery?” Tom said as he closed the folder again.

“Aside from the knife-job,” Flynn began dryly, “this one isn’t much different than the last few. The victim was killed by bleeding out and respiratory paralysis caused by Deadly Nightshade poisoning. The contents of his digestive tract haven’t been fully analyzed, and testing isn’t finished, but he died shortly after eating what appeared to be blueberry pie…which was apparently laced with enough Belladonna to cause the paralysis. The rest of the symptoms he could’ve suffered from seem to have been treated with some kind of medication, but so far Tox hasn’t found any narcotics in his system.”

“His blood was pretty clean,” Abraxas chimed in. “The primary anomaly with this particular victim has been the message left in blood on the walls. That said…” Abraxas flipped through some of his notes and slid Tom a print out. “There was snake venom found on the skin of his arm. Pathology sent up samples.” Abraxas shrugged. “Common adder venom. Nothing special. Doesn’t even match what Voldemort used in his earlier days.”

“But it’s certainly a nod to his old calling card,” said Avery. “The skin of McLaggen’s left wrist was raised and puffy even after washing. Like a welt or a hive, but in the shape of a ‘V’…”

Tom’s eyebrows rose. Snake venom painted onto the skin, in the same place he used to carve his his signature into his victims… She’d done her homework on Voldemort… Interesting.

But was her message mocking or an invitation of sorts?

“That’s what spurred the transgender theories,” Yaxley said with a tired sigh. “Personally, I don’t back those. Smith was talking out his ass and I care about doing my job properly too much to ignore even the least likely of theories.”

“What’s your gut telling you, then?” Tom asked. “Your instincts are usually pretty good, Corbin.”

Yaxley tugged at his hair again. “I think we have two freaks of nature on our hands, personally,” he said. “I think she might see a kindred spirit in him, someone as conniving as she is, and is curious about him. If her victims didn’t follow a trend of having histories of misconduct in various forms, I would think she’s doing all of this just to toy with Voldemort. But since her victims are  _ allegedly  _ immoral sods, I think she’s got a moral compass of sorts, unlike V, who seems to kill based on a system only he understands…” He trailed off with a shrug. “I think we’re missing a lot of variables. The best we can hope for, unfortunately, is for one of them to strike again. Preferably Voldemort, so we can see how he responds to her little nod in his direction once the autopsy details are released to the press…”

“I feel like the messier nature of this kill was intentional,” Tom said. “She’s drawing attention to this murder in particular by changing her MO a bit.”

“Her MO changes based on the victims, though,” said Abraxas. “Do we have enough evidence to tell if this has something to do with McLaggen specifically verses a…call-out to  _ Voldy _ ?”

Tom resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of all the stupid nicknames to give his alter ego, the department went with fucking  _ Voldy _ . “The venom ‘V’ kind of leaves us no other way to interpret it, Malfoy,” he said, his tone growing bored. The door opening behind him barely registered as his mind was running with the new information about his  _ neighbor _ . “She wants his attention. For what purpose, we can hardly tell, but she certainly intended for him to find out about her borrowed calling card.”

“That’s a hell of a long-con to play, potentially.” Yaxley scratched at the enamel on the table’s surface. There was a small chip the methodical man had noticed. “She has no way to know when we’ll release that information, if at all, and couldn’t guarantee Voldemort would find out about it until we made a statement.”

Tom felt a thick, slow sense of dread crawl down his spine.

She - The Lady - couldn’t possibly  _ know _ . Could she?

“An educated guess, perhaps?”

All four men turned towards the new voice and found Detective Granger leaning against the wall beside the door, her expression thoughtful.

“She’s obviously very familiar with Voldemort’s work, and would therefore be familiar with how this department, and the press, typically handle new developments,” she continued. “She’s probably assuming that her message will get across one way or another.”

Tom felt slightly sick. He hadn’t considered his new  _ neighbor  _ could be a  _ threat _ . Not until then. But now…she had to know he worked in law enforcement, at the very least. She knew he’d hear about her little stunt before the masses were alerted. Any other scenario seemed…lazy, which wasn’t an impression he ever got from her work.

“To meet what end?” Tom asked. The question was for any of them, but he wanted Granger to keep talking. Her mind worked like his. She had fresh eyes - unsettling, lying eyes - but she was still looking at this with clearer perspective.

But Granger only shrugged, her gaze unassuming on the surface. Tom admired how well she kept her inner thoughts hidden. No wonder she’d climbed the ranks of Scotland Yard so quickly. People never looked past the socially acceptable mask. Tom might’ve overlooked it himself if he hadn’t been so fascinated with the woman - and her arse - from the start.

“Hard to say. It could be a respect thing, since he was in the area first,” she said with a quiet sigh, her eyes raking over the whiteboard with  _ The Lady _ written on it before they traveled to Lord Voldemort’s on the adjacent wall. “It could be something as innocent as acknowledging a fellow monster and something as sinister as threatening to go after him herself…” she said slowly, her eyes returning to Tom’s. A slightly playful brow was quirked in question. “Either way, he’s kind of her type, isn’t he?”

That was not way Tom wanted to be “her type”. And he’d be damned in some cheeky little bint ran him out of town. “I suppose that’s true…” he said. “They’re certainly a pair.”

Granger gave him an amused look as Yaxley snorted and said, “A pair of nutters, maybe.”

“Behind every successful man…” Avery said, trailing off with a ‘what can you do’ sort of shrug. “If we get lucky, maybe the psycho serial killers will fall for each other and be too busy fucking to keep up with their hobbies.”

Tom and Hermione snorted at the same time, their eyes meeting briefly. Tom felt a smirk settle into place. They were on the same page.

“I doubt we’re dealing with basic compulsions when it comes to these two,” she said for them both. “Not to be any more morbid than these cases already are, but I imagine things would get  _ worse  _ if they teamed up, not better.”

Malfoy, Avery, and Yaxley made faces with varying levels of disgust and dread. An unspoken agreement to let that particular train of thought come to a halt on its tracks went through the group before Hermione smiled at the lot of them. 

“Minerva suggested I visit Dr. Lovegood with you, Mr. Avery,” she said. “When you’re finished here of course. I certainly didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“I think we’re done here actually,” said Tom. A quick glance at each of the other men backed him assessment. “Afterwards, I can fill in any gaps you may have concerning these two cases?” The question was directed at Granger, who nodded in agreement.

Tom offered the lot a charming smile. “Thank you for your time, gentlemen, as always. And for your contributions, Detective.”

Hermione moved to follow Flynn out of the room, but shot Tom a look before she turned away. “I think we discussed this already,  _ Tom _ .”

He snorted, but grinned at her before she left. “Apologies,  _ Hermione _ .”

She threw a dry “Acceptance pending” over her shoulder as she and Avery turned down the hall towards the lifts.

Tom didn’t realize he’d gotten distracted by watching her arse sway as she walked until Abraxas sighed. Corbin had left while Tom was dazed, apparently.

“Speaking of pairs…” Abraxas muttered pointedly. He looked a bit petulant. “Didn’t realize you had a type until now. Buggering hell, she’s  _ you  _ but…prettier.” He paused briefly. “And with tits.”

“And an arse,” Tom said without thinking. 

Abraxas raised a pale brow and gave him a blank look.

Tom shrugged, unashamed. “Not my fault she’s fit.”

“It’d be one thing if you were just doing that stupid prince charming shite you do,” Abraxas continued. “But she’s  _ flirting back _ . Fucking hell, Tom. She’s barely been here for three hours and you’re halfway up her skirt.”

Tom snorted again. He wished. “I’m not opposed,” he said. “Though I doubt she’s earnest. Playful, yes. Though I wonder how many men have misread that classic ‘feminine wiles’ manipulation before now.”

“Bet she’s wild behind closed doors,” Abraxas said as they started heading towards the lab to get back to analyzing what little evidence they had. “Fuck off for ruining anyone else’s chances at bedding the bird before she’s even been here  _ a day _ .”

“Happy to oblige.”

Roughly an hour later, Tom had prints of crime scene photos in his portfolio pad, among a slew of other reports, shoved between the leader bindings. He’d tucked the mess of papers under one arm while he got a tea and a coffee from the break room, and he’d just set the lot of it onto his desk in his office when a certain curly haired, fit-arsed detective appeared in his doorway, a disposable cup of something in her hands.

“I was just about to wonder after you,” he said, offering her a warm smile. “Please, come in. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Door open or shut?” she asked.

The question surprised him. It didn’t  _ really  _ matter, but the information they needed to discuss was confidential. Wasn’t a closed door implied?

“Shut, if it’s all the same to you, Detective,” he replied after a beat. “There’s a fair bit of evidence that isn’t widely known throughout the department…Lieutenant McGonagall would be cross if an intern overhead and leaked something to the press.”

Granger shot him a small smile. “Of course.”

There was a tangible shift in the air when the door clicked shut, followed by her muted footsteps on his carpet, before she sat that clever little arse in one of the chairs across from his desk. Maybe Abraxas hadn’t been entirely off base about the mutual, if not unprofessional, attraction between Tom and his new colleague…

“How has your first morning at HPD been?” he asked casually, testing the waters. Mixing work and pleasure wasn’t his usual strategy when it came to women, but Granger wasn’t the type of woman he typically went after either. 

His question seemed to surprise her, but she returned his smile anyway. “Fast,” she said with a laugh. “But good. There’s a solid structure here. A lot of talent, too.”

Tom gave her a playful shrug. “High praise from one of Scotland Yard’s best.”

Gods, those eyes were piercing. Piercing, but closed off. Masked. Enticing.

“It doesn’t take a dotty intern to recognize people who are committed to their passions,” she said. “Though I suppose it could be said that it takes a good investigator to recognize other good investigators.” She paused, her head tilting at him with a mild air of curiosity. “Specialists recognize specialists. Writers recognize writers. Artists recognize artists.” She shrugged. “It’s social awareness, not rocket science.”

Another genuine grin tugged at the smirk he’d originally settled into. “ _ Aware _ is certainly the word of the day…” he said carefully. Her deep brown eyes glittered. 

“Acknowledging this, are we?” she asked. “I was starting to wonder how many weeks you, Black, Malfoy, and the others would stare at my arse before someone tried to make a move.”

His only response, aside from his smug and amused expression, was, “I’m not sure what I expected when McGonagall forewarned us of your arrival, but  _ this  _ certainly wasn’t it. Not that I’m complaining.”

Her smirk turned slightly coy. “Nor I.”

“Still,” he began, “I do try to be a gentleman. It’s only polite to ask your opinion on a “welcome to the team” gathering before anyone else brings it up. Typically involves a pub. If any of my boys hear the  _ word  _ pub they’ll start trying to pressure you into it…” He gave her a more sincere look. “I can put the breaks on before that car’s even started, if you’d like.”

“I appreciate it,” she said, taking a quick sip of her drink. “I’m not much for large group gatherings, to be honest. But if they want an excuse to go out, I can play a last-minute excuse card to get out of it.”

“They may  _ want  _ an excuse, but they certainly don’t  _ need  _ one,” he said with a chuckle. “Consider it off the table.”

One of her brows rose. “Am I meant to believe that’s the only pub-related offer  _ on  _ the table?”

Fire started to sing in his veins and travel southward. How delightfully quick-witted, she was. Those enigmatic eyes, her smart mouth, plump lips, cheeky posture…

“May I be perfectly frank, Hermione?” he asked, his voice low. His cock was stirring, but he refused to lose his breath for a woman he hadn’t so much as kissed. 

Her smirk came back razor sharp. Predatory. He knew the feeling. He wanted to consume her too. “By all means, Tom.”

“I’d like for many things to be on this table,” he told her. “The only thing I can  _ guarantee  _ will be there is a dinner invitation, I’m afraid.”

The top layer of her mask was flirtatious, but underneath there was fire. He could only imagine she saw the same in him.

“I’m free tomorrow,” she said.

He’d never heard three sweeter words. “We would’ve needed each other’s numbers anyway…” he said, grinning, “but I’m content to pretend the play came first in this scenario.”

They continued to banter and flirt, each comeback as deliciously unexpected as the next, until they had one another programmed in their cell phones, and had gone over all of his notes for both Voldemort and The Lady’s cases. She’d tossed his ideas back at him with new viewpoints to explore for each case, assured of her own analysis every single time. His hands itched to wrap her thick, buoyant, wildly curly ponytail around one of his fists. But he settled for the rich, verbal, cerebral back and forth instead. 

The tent in his trousers wished he’d given in and bent her over the desk after all.

Her dilated eyes seemed to share the sentiment, despite her smug composure.

Knowing that there were two women, each challenging him in a different area of his life, was…  _ exhilarating _ to say the least. He hadn’t been kept on his toes like this since he disposed of his biological families, and even then, taking himself off the suspect list had been painfully easy. He was an orphan, after all. He’d never known his mother - or his father - and framing his  _ dear  _ uncle for the murder of his paternal family couldn’t have been simpler. The whole thing was thought to be leftover animosity due to Merope’s tragic end, and the families’ belief that her only son had died as well.

He’d laughed himself the tears back at his flat the night the ‘official story’ was released to the public. Tragically, Morfin managed to ‘kill himself’ before his trial, and the rest, as they say, was history.

Tom’s only remaining concern after admiring the shapely Detective Granger as she left his office was what to do about his  _ neighbor _ .

If he ignored her, and gave all his attention to Granger and Granger alone, would the seemingly omniscient Lady find out? He wanted to paint handprints and teethmarks on Granger’s arse, not a target. Which means he’d have to placate The Lady until they caught her. And hopefully by then, he’d have gotten close enough to Granger to decide if she was worth the risk… 

Some small part of him wondered if either woman would be entertaining enough that he wouldn’t need his other hobby. Maybe Granger would keep his secret, even. She didn’t think like everyone else, from what he could tell. If she was truly of the same cloth as himself, then he might just have his own personal treasure walking around the department.

Still, he needed to plan for the worst, not the best. Right now the worst meant  _ The Lady _ .

His gut told him her copy cat calling card was a nod to him. A sign of respect from one artist to another. A white flag, perhaps. If so, then his olive branch could be coy, teasing. A mimicry of her last scene, only instead of painting the walls with blood - he preferred cleaner kills, personally, and took care with how he bled his prey - he’d leave his gift of choice to bleed all over the bed. Perhaps he’d pull another personal marker from his bag of tricks. He could make his message to her clear with the carefully made, laminated stickers he sometimes used to leave poetry and quotes at his crime scenes. He typically only used them to toy with the department when things got dull. But for her, he’d line his hotel room of choice with Austen and Bronte quotes. How she responded to those would be quite telling.

Besides, he could flirt with this cunning  _ Lady _ . It would be so very fortunate to stumble across another uncatchable hunter, an artist. If she was fit, and his fling with Granger didn’t seem like it would be worth his time and energy, then he’d have another to possibly warm his bed with, to call his own. He could be her eyes and ears with the authorities and she could learn the qualifications he had for his prey, if she was of the mind. It would certainly save him time to have help. And it’d save his sanity to meet a woman he didn’t have to hide from. 

But if he was being perfectly honest with himself, the temptation of a partner in crime wasn’t quite as sweet of a vision as ripping that skirt off Granger’s arse and replacing it with his teeth…


	2. When The Music Stops

Tom was home for the evening and maneuvering around his kitchen when his phone buzzed against the counter. He tended to his stirfry for a moment longer and took a long sip of wine before picking it up. A text. The sender?  _ Smart Arse _ .

His lips twitched.

**From: Smart Arse | 9:14 PM**

**Has anyone figured out why V’s calling cards are erratic?**

He squinted at the message, marginally disappointed that she was texting him about work. He’d have to segway into discussing the specifics of their dinner date the following evening.

_ Not yet no, he typed. I assume he gets bored and changes up his MO to entertain himself. _

Her next message didn’t come until he was plating his dinner. Once he had it, his wine bottle, and his refilled glass situated at the island, he read it.

**From: Smart Arse | 9:21 PM**

**Sounds like he needs to get laid.**

Tom choked on a bite of chicken, but was smiling as he coughed until he could breathe properly again.  _ Maybe he’ll woo TL. _

**From: Smart Arse | 9:24 PM**

**Pfft. Maybe their honeymoon phase will make them sloppy.**

Tom smirked.  _ I hope for her sake that he’s at least something of a gentleman and takes her out to dinner first. _

**From: Smart Arse | 9:26 PM**

**Hm… Rather high standards to hold a murderer to, don’t you think?**

_ If he has the cerebral capacity to be a successful, cunning serial killer, he has the cerebral capacity to be a gentleman. A man’s interest should be equally proportionate to his efforts. _

**From: Smart Arse | 9:31 PM**

**An interesting school of thought, to say the least.**

_ You disagree? _

**From: Smart Arse | 9:33 PM**

**Disagree isn’t the word I’d use. I’d say I don’t fully share your sentiments.**

Tom licked wine from his lips.  _ Then we have something to debate over dinner, don’t we? _

**From: Smart Arse | 9:36 PM**

**Sounds like it’ll be more exciting than the whole lot of nothing I was going to do with my Friday.**

Tom drained his wineglass in victory. Feeling confident, he typed:  _ What about Saturday morning? Busy then? _

**From: Smart Arse | 9:37 PM**

**I suppose that’ll depend on how stiff that code of yours is, won’t it?**

Tom’s eyebrows rose and he read her message a second time, then a third, just to be certain his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.

_ I’ll plan for brunch then _ , he replied.  _ Tease. _

Her next message contained nothing but a single smirking emoji. He sent back a kissy face and a peach, content to let her interpret that as she saw fit.

**From: Smart Arse | 9:40 PM**

**This could mean two thematically similar but very different things… Which did you *intend* to imply?**

_ Which one do you want? _

**From: Smart Arse | 9:42 PM**

**Now who’s the tease?**

* * *

 

Tom was rudely awoken the next morning by his phone ringing, blasting away at his nightstand. For a whole second he was annoyed, then he realized what song was filling his bedroom, and thus who must be calling him.

_ Come outa dem jeans, and make me a believer _

_ Put it on me, I ain’t never gon’ leave ya _

_ Kama-Kama Sutra, Kama-Kama Sutra _

_ Kama-Kama Sutra, babe _

“To what do I owe this early wake-up call, Detective,” he said teasingly after he answered, despite his voice still being thick with sleep. 

_ Well, I have good news and bad news. The bad news is that you need to get down here asap. _

His lips twitched into a smirk as he slipped his eyes closed again, enjoying the way her words twisted around flirty undertones and jagged edges.  _ Kama Sutra _ was a good ringtone for her, but he was starting to weigh the merits of changing it to  _ Bubblegum _ . Maybe  _ Tip Toe _ . 

“Bad news?” he prompted, wracking his brain for artists aside from Jason Derulo that wrote songs he could tolerate —or at least fuck to— that were also dedicated the female form. 

_ Another murder. Seems we weren’t too off joking about a certain someone flirting with his new playmate. _

“That was fast,” he said, sighing as he finally cracked his eyes open and started shuffling out of bed. “Where do you want me?”

_ Right where you are, from the sound of it. _

Tom was suddenly much more awake that he had been a moment ago. He licked his lips, his mouth dry. “If the day runs long, we can always eat here,” he purred. 

_ Offering to cook me dinner, Riddle? _

He stood, fully aware of the smirk on his face as he moved to his dresser and slipped on a pair of jeans. “I think we’ve already established what I’m offering,  _ Granger _ .”

She chuckled in his ear, and the sound seemed to reverberate through him.  _ Touché. I’m headed to the scene now. McGonagall said your place wasn’t too far out of the way. Want me to pick you up? _

“On one condition,” he said, pulling a tshirt over his head.

What’s that?

“Next time you’re here, you come inside.”

She snorted softly.  _ The list of replies to that is endless. _

He chuckled. “A half-arsed innuendo wasn’t how I hoped to silence your smart mouth, but I’ll take it.”

_ Promises, promises, Riddle. _

“You haven’t accepted my terms…”

_ Well, since you twisted my arm... Send me your address. _

“Texting and driving? I think not. What street are you on? I’ll navigate you.”

She protested, but he wouldn’t have it, although he did enjoy all her huffing and sighing as he got ready for the day and gave her directions.

“I have two parking spaces, so you’re looking for the black car with an empty space beside it.”

_ In front of 13? _

“ _ C’est moi. _ ”

He heard her tires against the pavement and smiled. 

_ Ready? _

“Always.”

_ To go to  _ **_work_ ** _ , Tom. _

He sighed dramatically. “If I must I suppose. Do you want cream?”

There was a pause, then:  _ Elaborate. _

He snickered. “In your coffee, love, figured I’d make you some. I imagine you didn’t have time to grab any before you started to head out.

She paused for a beat longer than he was comfortable with before quietly muttering her assent to cream and a little sweetener.

“I’ll be out in a second,” he promised, a bit confused by her shift in mood.

_ Alright. _

He slipped into a pair of black shoes, shouldered his messenger bag, and put the lids on their travel mugs. After a cursory glance to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, he headed towards the door and balanced the drinks in one arm so he could lock it behind him.

His eyebrows rose at the sleek, sporty, flashier-than-he-expected Audi parked next to  _ his  _ Audi.

She was texting someone, but unlocked the door as he approached the passenger side. Her situational awareness wasn’t surprising, but it caused a tickling sensation under his skin nonetheless. He’d have to work to sneak up on her. The promise of a challenge sang through his veins as he passed her one of the travel mugs and got settled in the seat. It wasn’t until he’d set his bag in the floorboard and his seat belt clicked into place that he caught her eye again. 

Her silence made sense all of a sudden. The look of quiet confusion in her eyes as she stared at the mug said more than enough.

“Thank you,” she said after a tentative sip.

“You’re welcome.”

He watched her, looking for more signs that might clue him into her thoughts, but she set her drink in a cupholder and threw the car in reverse. The perplexing look in her eyes faded as they headed towards the crime scene  _ —his  _ crime scene— and he tried to rekindle some of the excitement he’d felt upon completing his little offering for his neighbor. He wondered how long she’d wait to reply to him.

“I’m surprised he responded to her so quickly,” Hermione said out of the blue. Her eyes were still blank, trained on the road as she drove. Tom frowned at the shift in her demeanor. 

Confident with her body and sex appeal. Baffled by gestures of genuine courtesy that conveyed an iota of affection.

Curious.

“I’m not,” he said, taking a long sip of his coffee. “She baited him.”

“Still seems too fast,” she said.

He didn’t like her voice so stilted, lacking its usual ‘get-up’. Had she suspected that he only wanted a shag? And, presumably, accepted that? He’d go digging for details about her person life online later— hopefully when she was naked and fast asleep in his bed.

“How do you figure?” he asked. “He’s never been one for meaningless pauses. He’s had startlingly quick response times before. It was less than 24 hours between the press release that announced him as  _ Valentine  _ and Voldemort painting his name in blood.”

Granger shook her head. “Different circumstances entirely.”

Tom felt his brow crease. “How so?”

She huffed a somewhat bitter half-laugh. “Because that was a matter of pride. HPD didn’t do what he wanted them to and interrupted what I assume was a long and convoluted power game. I’ve seen it before, especially with the ones who leave any sort of calling card. One of my earliest cases was for a bloke who ended up going by Paradise. He left self-made postcards at every scene, usually very generic looking, but all taken with the same quality of camera. Beach-scapes that were aligned just enough to be unidentifiable. Woodland vistas of creeks too generic to pin down. It was maddening. My sergeant wanted to just call him the Postcard Killer and move on. I advised against it. I was ignored…” A muscle in her jaw ticked. “Twelve hours later I get a call, a summons. The venue wasn’t his usual style - anger made him impatient, I suppose. Thirty people were cut to pieces, each with a different postcard stapled to their heads, left for us to find in one of those…bugger what’s the word. The places people rent for wedding receptions, basically a ballroom. Eyes and tongues removed, left in bowls and vases on tables like centerpieces. He wrote ‘ _ Welcome to Paradise’s _ ’ in blood on the wall you’d see first when you entered the room through the main doors. If you turned around, above the doors, he wrote ‘ _ Don’t you wish I was here? _ ’. I called him Paradise in the next press conference. He left me a note at the next scene, insulting my superiors and promising not to kill me, despite my ‘being too smart to be safe’, until after I figured out who he was for myself.”

Tom ground his teeth. “Is he one of the ones who…led to your relocation?”

The half smile she shot him was dark. “Oh no. I was far smarter than he planned for. Nearly got fired proving it though.”

Tom blinked in surprise. “Oh, come on, don’t be a tease. A good girl like you nearly fired?”

She shrugged. “Disobeyed direct orders. He’d left some…crumbs for me to find at his next few scenes. Decoded, it was coordinates, a time of day, and a number representing two days of the week. Tuesdays and Thursdays. I lied about which days it was when I explained all of this to my sergeant and he refused to take the chance to capture the guy. So I took my gun and went myself.”

“Jesus, Granger,” he said, respect simmering under his skin. As well as fear. She’d get herself in trouble with that attitude. He could only account for the actions of one of the serial killers in town. He might stay away from her, but The Lady? “Did you have a death wish?”

“Nope. But no one brushed me off after that. My superior was fired and after two months of failing to find a replacement, Vector decided we could co-run it. I did the field work, she mostly stayed at the office. Sergeant-in-name-only, to so speak. I got to do all the fun dangerous stuff.”

“You got to have the target painted on your back,” he corrected. She shrugged, completely unfazed. It baffled him. She was too smart to think she was better than every serial killer just because she’d outsmarted a few. He knew she was.

“They all have a weakness, Tom,” she said. “They all have a tell. Something you can poke at to make them sloppy or overconfident. Finding it is the hard part. Baiting them isn’t.”

“I wonder how The Lady figured Voldemort out so quickly,” he said, itching for more of her thoughts on the issue.

“I have a theory on that,” she said. “She may have outed a possible weakness of his, actually.”

Tom’s brows rose. “Pray tell how you came to that conclusion. She left a nod to his calling card at a crime scene. Minnie thought that information was harmless enough to announce yesterday afternoon.”

“Then last night he plucks a drunk off the street and, according to  _ Minerva  _ leaves a bunch of literary quotes strewn about? He would’ve needed time to think and prepare.”

“Maybe he’s excited,” Tom offered. “I’m curious to see this scene for myself.”

“As am I,” she murmured.

He was excited to see Granger in her element, but her mood was worrying him. By the time they reached the hotel, on police lockdown naturally, she’d relaxed marginally. Just enough that none of their colleagues noticed.

But that might be because they were too busy staring, slack-jawed, as he exited the car and walked up to the tape line with her. Tom winked at Abraxas, then stared down Black and Potter, who looked as if they were having trouble deciding whether they wanted to assault him or congratulate him.

“God damn, way to give the rest of us a chance, Riddle,” Black muttered as McGonagall waved Hermione —and Tom— in her direction.

“Snooze you lose,” he mouthed, following Granger. His mind went pleasantly blank while he watched her hips rock with every step. If all went well, and she got out of whatever mood she was in, he’d be biting those hips later.

“—not to ment—” Granger stopped speaking and glanced at him over her shoulder, but he was a little too slow. She raised a brow before focusing forward again. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

He eyed her jeans with appreciation again, looking for some sign of what type of knickers she was wearing, but her shirt wasn’t riding high enough yet. “Not one.”

“Typical.”

“I was distracted by planning how I intend for my evening to go,” he said, unashamed. They’d nearly reached Minerva. “I’ll behave.”

“Enjoying the view, at least?”

“If we weren’t working…”

She threw him a grin over her shoulder, seemingly back to herself. “Promises, promises.”

Minerva was stone-faced as she led them to the actual crime scene, and Tom feigned his usual pensive attitude as he dropped back, letting Granger lead him into the room. Minerva also seemed content to watch the younger woman work, and Tom shared a glance with her when Hermione made it to the center of the room before she stopped dead.

It took a few moments for the silence, the stillness, to catch the notice of Nott, Avery, and their smattering of lackeys documenting evidence around her —not that he’d left much aside from the body. Tom’s ears started to ring in the uneasy silence before Hermione quietly spoke up.

“Out.”

Nott and Avery looked at Granger, then McGonagall, who looked worried.

“Get  _ out _ .”

Minerva jerked her head when Nott and Avery looked for confirmation again and took a few steps towards the room, concerned. “Detective Granger…”

Hermione didn’t respond and for a moment Tom wondered if she was going to move at all. She turned, ignoring everyone she could see outside the room, and slowly started observing everything —except the body on the bed— going clockwise from the door. He could only see the side of her profile as she took in the walls, then nothing, then the other side when she was forced to look behind herself.

“Whoever’s wearing a watch, cover it.”

Black, Potter, Minerva, and Nott were briefly startled, but shoved hands in pockets or covered their watches as asked. Tom almost didn’t notice, too many thoughts spinning in his head as he watched Granger do…whatever she was doing.

Had his scene reminded her of something from her past she’d rather not remember? Minerva had said she was, or had been, threatened personally while hunting criminals in London. He wished he knew more about her. The last thing he wanted was to inadvertently cock-block himself by triggering his newest object of interest. But her eyes looked too clear, when he was able to see them. She was stiff, but not afraid. Troubled, maybe. Worried. Then, suddenly, the fear bloomed.

“Granger,” he started.

She shook her head and held up a finger, her head tilted slightly. She was listening for something.

“Tom,” she said. “Can you come here? And bring me some gloves, would you?”

He shared another glance with Minerva, shrugged, and took two sets of gloves from the box Nott held out to him. Once his were on, he stepped inside. 

The carpet was clean. Not a drop spilled — Tom hated the amount of work that had to go into analyzing a messy crime scene, typically. The body on the bed was mostly clean-looking as well, although he was certain the bedding and mattress weren’t so fortunate.

He moved near Granger, gave her the gloves, and raised a brow at her once she met his eyes.

“Listen,” she said. Her furrowed brows were almost too cute to take seriously. “Do you hear that? The chiming?”

He frowned at her, but tried to listen, slowing his breathing, and thus his heartrate after a moment, so he could hear better in the quiet.

It took him a second, but then he could, just barely, make out a two-note jingle that sounded like a xylophone. It almost sounded like sirens, in a sense. Hermione moved, presumably following the sound into the closet.

He had a sudden, terrifying thought. “Granger, wait!”

She didn’t, and his heart hammered for a moment, terrified that  _ somehow, someone _ had planted something in his crime scene.

“I need a camera before I move this,” she called from the closet.

Nott heard her, passed his camera to Tom with a nod, and resumed his post right outside the door. Tom, in turn, moved towards the closet and passed it to Hermione.

She snapped a few quick shots of whatever was making the sound, then passed it back to him. When she moved to exit the closet, she had an iPod and a small bluetooth speaker in her hand.

“I assume no one had checked the closet yet,” Tom said dryly.

“It was closed when we got here,” Avery supplied. “So no. We hadn’t thought to check it yet. Seemed untouched.”

Tom mentally scoffed. It  _ had been _ untouched. He hadn’t needed the closet. The hotel room was just somewhere to dump a body, his victim hadn’t actually been staying here, despite what the records would show. One shelf of the small walk-in contained a few extra towels. That was all. 

Granger informed him that the iPod and its speaker had been hidden between said towels. “To muffle the sound, it seems. I didn’t hear it until I stood in here in the quiet for a while.”

Avery brought her an evidence bag, but Hermione refused it. She held the baby blue iPod up, then flipped it around with her fingers. There was a note on the back, taped flush with the device’s surface on all sides to keep it in place. Lord Voldemort was written in a clean, elegant script. 

Several of his colleagues echoed Tom’s initial thought.

“ _ What?! _ ”

Hermione shrugged. “Beats me. I imagine we should get this thing back to the lab just to make sure there’s no partials on the tape or anything. Maybe the song is a clue too, whatever it was. It sounded familiar to me but it wasn’t up very loud. Might be an edited sound byte.”

Tom shook his head to clear it, but thankfully everyone else seemed to be at a loss for words as well.

Hermione finally let Avery help her bag up the devices, then gave everyone a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I immediately got the sense that something wasn’t right in there. I can wait until the rest of the obvious evidence is collected to go back in and analyze Voldemort’s love letters.”

“No apologies necessary, Detective,” Minerva said quickly. Tom could see the pride swimming in the older woman’s gaze, despite how she tried to hide it. “I am…rather stunned to find that a mutual colleague of ours was correct. ‘Scarily brilliant’ were his exact words.”

Hermione’s eyes lit up mischievously. “I didn’t know you and Mad-Eye were acquainted, Lieutenant. Moody’s a good man. Paranoid as all hell, though.”

Minerva chuckled with her. 

Tom shared a glance with Nott, Avery, Potter, and Black. None of them knew what to make of the morning, it seemed.

Hours later, when Tom had a chance to take his own notes on the room, trying and failing to wonder why and how a message for him had appeared at a scene he’d constructed in three hours’ time, four hours prior to when Granger woke him that morning.

Hermione approached him, joining him at the wall he was leaning against as the last few interviews were being conducted. The last few shreds of evidence were neatly packed up and ready to be analyzed at the office. His fingers itched for that iPod.

“Remember this morning, when you said you thought Voldemort had moved too fast?” he asked her quietly. The nearest reporter was a good ways away, being held off by police, but he was anxious now for more reason than one. Caution was necessary.

“I do,” said Hermione. “Why?”

“Surely that note, whatever it is, can only be from The Lady,” he murmured. “How would she have known about an impulse kill with enough time to plant something like this? Time of death was less than twelve hours ago and HPD has been here for three hours already. The window of plausibility is almost negligible.”

“Dunno,” she said. “I’m itching to read that note, though.”

He nodded in agreement, remaining pensive until they were finally dismissed back to the station. 

* * *

 

Tom was somewhat grateful that Granger suggested a divide-and-conquer approach to analyzing evidence, letting out a quiet sigh of relief when they parted ways at his office. A sigh that was quickly followed by an equally quiet and appreciative moan as he watched her walk away.

The quicker he got to work, the sooner he could potentially rid her of those damned jeans, lovely though they were.

As a precaution, he didn’t beeline for the lab, choosing to get debriefed from Yaxley and Avery. Then he got tea, chatted with Black and Potter about their impressions at the scene, read through some of their notes from speaking to the hotel staff, and then finally made his way to his favorite part of the building.

Avery was at his computer station in the back trying to find additional evidence via the iPod’s music library by the looks of it. Tom pulled over a chair from the nearest empty station and sat beside him.

“How’s it going?”

Without looking away from the screen, Avery reached for a piece of paper and handed it to Tom. 

“So,” Avery began. “Those are the lyrics to the song that was set to play on repeat when Granger found this thing. The most interesting thing I’ve been able to tell so far is that the few audio files on here are all extremely manipulated. I plucked them all off of it after making sure they weren’t full of viruses. Emailed them to you. And before you ask, no one has touched the note. Figured you or Girl Wonder would want it first and she deferred to you, then said she’d tackle Voldemort’s love letters.”

Tom silently thanked her in his head. He already knew the myriad of messages  _ Voldemort  _ was trying to convey. It was The Lady’s mysterious note that perplexed him.

Gloved hands gently pried the tape from the back of the iPod while Avery held it over a clean sheet of paper, just in case anything fell out of it. Nothing did. Tom took the tape surrounded note to a clean spot of table space near one of the microscopes and painstakingly started the process of collecting any physical traces of evidence he could before he read it.

Zilch.

Nada.

Nothing.

His neighbor was thorough. Clever girl…

He was damn near salivating with anticipation as he removed all the tape from the edges and carefully unfolded the note.

The paper was  _ thin _ . Thinner than tracing paper, yet the ink was smooth. It hadn’t bled into the surrounding parchment much,  though he would’ve expected it to. Her handwriting was precise. Fluid. Methodical.

_ Dear Voldemort, _

_ I’m surprised by the warm welcome. You didn’t strike me as the type at first. _

_ Now I wonder how many more surprises you have in store for me. _

_ Forgive me for being so forward. Kindred spirits are novel to me. Though I doubt you find me impertinent, do you? _

_ ~Lady _

Tom read the letter twice, baffled and certain he was overlooking something, then shook his head to clear it. One thing was for certain: She definitely knew he worked for law enforcement. She hadn’t stated it directly, but surely her  _ forwardness  _ was the convoluted nature of the message she left behind for Voldemort. The iPod. The songs. Those details would be skimmed over in press releases. Their intricacies only observed by the department. 

Her message would get to him, of course, but the others would wonder why she wasted her time with such a convoluted delivery system. Yaxley would probably advise against mentioning it at all, coming to the correct conclusion that she was using them to communicate with Voldemort.

Just not in the way Tom’s colleagues would assume.

He needed to be careful. The note hadn’t contained any threats. It had been nearly playful, in fact. He didn’t think she intended to expose him, not that he could even begin to figure out how she’d discovered his secret in the first place. 

As long as he could outsmart Granger with his future endeavors, he should be in the clear.

And if things went well with Granger, he might be entertained enough to lay that particularly devious past time to rest.

Tom transcribed the note on his legal pad, jotted down his thoughts, and carefully returned the letter to its evidence bag. He thanked Avery, made sure he knew how to access the media files from the MP3, and decided it was time to pair back up with a certain fit detective.


	3. Deadpool & Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom flirts with Smart Arse. Excessively.

He found her alone in the conference room with a cup of tea in her hands and a pensive pout on her lips. Large photographs of Voldemort’s left behind quotes littered the table in front of her. What he wouldn’t give to pull that lower lip between his teeth. The thought made him smirk as he reached out to gently knock on the door.

She waved him in without looking up from the table.

“They’re still putting your office together, I take it?” he asked.

She hummed and took a sip of tea, but the sound was so noncommittal that he couldn’t decide whether it was an affirmation or contradiction.

He watched her as he shut the door again. “Am I bothering you?”

“No…” she murmured absently. “You’re fine, I’m just thinking.”

He took one of the chairs and sat his things a few seats down from where her ‘desk space’ ended. “Penny for them.”

Granger hesitated, smiled to herself just long enough to give a short, breathy laugh, then smoothed her features once more. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to demand she tell him her thoughts or watch her execute such flawless cerebral acrobatics for the rest of the day.

“Has Voldemort shown a predilection towards the number nine before now?” she asked suddenly.

He blinked. “Not to my knowledge, no.”

She hummed again. “Three sets of three. Well rounded. Lucky.”

He chose not to respond, eager to see where her brilliantly befuddling mind went with such a small detail, but she fell quiet once again. They stayed like that for quite some time. Occasionally, she’d pick up a photograph, hum, sip her tea, and set it back down, or he’d jot down a thought or two he had while watching her. By Tom’s watch, their near-silence had stretched on for nearly half an hour.

He wasn’t sure if he was more surprised by her complete disregard of what most people considered an awkward silence or the fact that no one had come looking for either of them with new information or some report or another yet.

“I can’t tell if he’s smitten with the idea of her or threatening her,” she said at last.

“Both, perhaps,” he supplied, hiding a smile behind his hand. 

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” she agreed, her tone indecipherable. “Presumptuous of him though, don’t you think?”

“Is it?” he asked. “She’s singled him out, made her interest in him clear. I assume she’s following him to some degree given the limited time frame she would’ve had to plant her little note to him. He made his intelligence obvious eons ago... Seems like an educated guess to me.”

Her eyes flicked up to his briefly, unreadable. “It doesn’t strike me as the type of risk he’d be willing to take. If she is following him then she knows who he is. She could expose him.”

Tom shrugged. “I don’t think she plans to. The letter didn’t imply that at all. If anything I’d say she’s bored and he’s interesting to her. She’s at least mildly fascinated by him.”

“But to what end?” she parried.

Tom felt his lips twitch into a smirk. “Maybe Avery had a point yesterday. Psychopaths are few and far between. And it’s not like they fit into normal society well. But then this established, wicked clever serial killer just…remains a mystery to an entire department for over a year and he’s -seemingly- as meticulous as she is. Oddities they may be, but they’re still human to a degree, Granger. They’re probably curious about each other.”

Hermione’s lips twisted into a frown as she glared down at one of the photographs again. “It’s out of character for him. I couldn’t say for her, she a newer anomaly.” 

“Can hardly fault him for being interested in her then, can you?” Tom teased. “A shiny, new, curious, clever woman moved into his territory. I hate to say it, but I think I might actually be able to empathize with him on this one.” He paused while Granger fought against a smile. “For all we know she’s got a lovely arse and he can’t help himself.”

She gave him an amused, slightly admonishing look. “I’m really starting to wonder what you like most about me, Tom,” she said dryly.

“Your brain,” he said immediately. “Which I’m convinced is so large that your pretty little head was getting cramped, forcing some sections to relocate southbound. A pity, really. I’d hate to give you a concussion later.”

The fire under her gaze was present again. Tom smirked when he saw it.

“You’ll be happy to find that my brain is perfectly normal-sized, thank you,” she quipped. “Regardless of how well it functions intellectually.”

“Oh I hope you’re right,” he said. “I’d hate to hurt you.”

Her lips twitched as something sharpened behind her gaze. “Would you?”

Tom resisted the urge to lick his lips. “Well,” he said, “unless you asked nicely.”

“Promises, promises,” she cooed in a sing-song tone. “Still, I fear this game of chase will be over before it’s even started.”

The near disappointment in her tone made him smile. “How so? I know you think she’s exposed a weakness of his…”

“He’s bored,” she said softly. Her gaze flicked between the nine photographs as she spoke, her tone nearly morose. “Or he was, at any rate. I think she’s been watching him for far longer than she’s been drawing attention to herself. Maybe she even recognized his intelligence early on. Boredom is usually what brings down the smart ones. They get cocky. They get creative.” She paused for a moment, then glanced up at him, her expression unreadable. “Maybe she’s trying to save him from himself.”

“That’d be oddly generous of her. Assuming she barely knows him, of course,” he replied, mulling it over. Part of him was offended that anyone could think he needed  _ help _ . But another part of him worried that maybe the clever woman before him would’ve picked his secrets apart had The Lady not stepped in - if Granger’s speculations were correct, of course.

Hermione shrugged. “This is all assuming she’s taken to him in some way,” she said.

“She has,” he said. “At least, the note implies she has. She says ‘kindred spirits are novel’ to her at one point.”

Hermione hummed again. “He’s well-read.”

“Or capable of using Google,” he said dryly.

A small smile tugged at the edges of her lips. “Or that. Still. We’d have a much better chance of bringing them down if we understood their intentions towards each other. Or we’d at least be able to start predicting their next moves in some way.”

Tom made a show of examining the photographs in reach. Hermione, graciously, slid the others towards him. He read them aloud under his breath:

_ “It is fate that I am here but you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy.” _

_ “Power is given only to him who dares to stoop and take it ... one must have the courage to dare.”  _

_ “Can I think of soliciting such a creature to consent to her own ruin? Shall I indulge any passion of mine at such a price?”  _

_ “A man does not recover from such a devotion of the heart to such a woman! He ought not; he does not.” _

_ “Well, so many words, because I can't touch you. If I could sleep with my arms around you, the ink could stay in the bottle.” _

_ "Now you will go and be shut up in that stone prison at Lowick: you will be buried alive. It makes me savage to think of it! I would rather never have seen you than think of you with such a prospect."  _

_ “I keep it always full of interesting people, night and day. People who do interesting things. Celebrated people."  _

_ "Now I must give you one smirk, then we can be rational again." _

_ "A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery."  _

Tom hummed thoughtfully. “The man certainly knows how to blend an invitation and a warning,” he mused. “It’s like watching a pair of toddlers dip their toes in a pool to check the temperature of the water.”

Hermione snorted softly. “That’s certainly one way to put it.” She took a deep breath and let out a sigh that was satisfied and resigned. “I’d expect two such characters to exercise caution as they appear to be. More than this actually. I’d say they’re both being a bit lax, in fact.”

He marveled at that declaration. “You’re almost as much of a puzzle as this case is,” he said. “And far more entertaining.”

She shot him another look, this time with a smirk playing at the edge of her lips. “What a charmer you are, Tom,” she said, stretching and picking up her cup before making her way towards the door, presumably to make a quick trip to the break room. “A certifiable lady killer.”

He watched her walk away, aware of the grin on his face. 

_ I don’t want to kill you _ , he thought.  _ Not unless you become a problem. _

* * *

 

He sucked in a breath thickened by the dense steam curling around his arms as the spray of the shower ran over his head. Bowed between his arms, his head hung, hair dripping as rivulets of water cascaded over his shoulders and down his back. 

If he was lucky, tomorrow the water might burn as it slid over scratch marks from a certain set of neatly trimmed nails.

For now, he had to finish washing up, get dressed, and pick up his sexy little colleague. Dinner would give him a chance to see how she behaved in a more casual setting. The woman under the crime-solving prodigy would be his deciding factor in regards to how seriously he pursued her company going forward.

But lord, how he hoped she was as much his type as she seemed to be. What he wouldn’t give to slip his cock through a plump pair of too-smart lips or feel soft thighs against his cheeks as he made her clench around his tongue.

Tom shivered despite the warmth of the shower and did his best to ignore his impatient erection.

He only hoped he wouldn’t be forced to seduce some little slag to replace his much more appealing colleague later in the evening, if things went poorly. Rubbing one out himself just didn’t feel like it’d do the woman he wanted justice. 

He ran a hint of gel through his hair after his shower, wanting his locks to fall naturally and stay soft in the event that Granger’s fingers found their way into them. A fresh pair of jeans, his undershirt, a brand new dark button up, deodorant, and not-too-much cologne later, Tom was ready to leave. His keys and wallet found their way into his pockets shortly before his fitness tracker was fastened on his wrist.

As he made his way towards the door, and his shoes, his phone pinged.  _ Smart Arse _ had texted him her address. He recognized it as being in a fairly well off area, similar to his own, only a fifteen-minute ride across town.

The idea of being able to get from his front door to hers in such a short time made all prospects of a future relationship that much sweeter. 

He sent her a quick  _ Omw _ , double checked that he had his wallet, and left his house with excitement vibrating in his veins. 

Tom blinked in surprise when he pulled up to her end-unit townhouse and noticed the black-clad figure gently rocking in the porch swing. He wouldn’t have pegged her for the porch swing type. Hammocks maybe. He’d laze around in a hammock if he had her pressed up against him for however long she wanted, if he was being honest with himself.

“Porch swings don’t really strike me as your type of outdoor lounging,” he said as he shut his car door and strode up the short walkway to her porch stairs.

“I prefer chaises,” she said from the shadows. “And the hammock out back.”

Tom grinned and gave himself a mental pat on the back. “You’ll have to show me sometime.”

She stood as he reached the top step and moved towards him. The lights in her home were off, but the faint porch light behind him and street light a few meters away slowly revealed her to him.

A black peacoat hung loosely at her elbows, allowing him an unobstructed view of the simple, silky dress that fell and caught the light on every curve. The thin straps and neckline uncovered the cleavage he was suddenly thankful she’d hidden at work. Her arse was distracting enough. Had he realized just how lovely the view under her blouses and blazers was going to be, he might’ve embarrassed himself in front of his colleagues. 

Thankfully, he already knew Granger had no problem with his overt appreciation of her body. 

The only thing that gave him pause was the uneven line of raised skin that ran from her collar bone down through the valley the generous plunge in her dress let him see, disappearing under the fabric entirely.

A scar. Relatively thin, not terribly discolored, but apparent. 

His blood felt thicker in his veins, even as heat prickled at the back of his neck. He traced the line back up with his eyes, noticed the small pendant resting in the hollow of her throat, and met her patient but otherwise unreadable gaze.

“Are they dead?” he asked calmly. “I won’t ask how it happened, because you won’t tell me unless you want to anyway. But you wanted me to know about it. I know you walked away from whatever happened, but I’d like to know you won beyond that.”

She seemed surprised by his not-quite-reaction, opening her mouth twice unsuccessfully before she spoke. “When they found me, I was nearly dead from blood loss and he’d been dead for days…”

Tom said nothing when she looked away and closed her eyes for a moment to, he presumed, keep a tight grip on whatever emotions may have tried to resurface. 

Their line of work meant he knew a lot of about trauma victims and she was, naturally, aware of that fact. Which only meant she was testing how he handled trauma outside of work. She wanted to see what he could handle.

It would take a lot more than a bit of marred skin and bad memories to make him find her unattractive. 

It would take a hell of a lot more to make him find such a fine pair of tits undesirable, that was for damn sure. Especially with such a clever brain north of them and the most perfect arse he’d ever laid eyes on due south and around the bend of the waist he wanted to feel beneath his fingers.

When Granger met his eyes again, hers were surprisingly clear. “I apparently managed to saw him into a few chunks before passing out. I don’t remember much after the first few days - or what I assume were days. Vector told me I was missing for two months.”

Tom forced himself not to sway with the sudden bout of nausea that overcame him. “Granger,” he said carefully. “You’re too smart for me to need to repeat this. The scar made me want to know how he died. That  _ sentence  _ nearly made me ill. And you have to know, after the scene we saw today, that my stomach doesn’t turn easily anymore.”

There was still a calculative glint in her eyes that he didn’t like. Tom sighed. “Hermione,” he said patiently. “It’s going to take more than a battle scar to make me uninterested in you. Minnie gave us all a nice lecture about how you were brilliant but had been through hell and back. Frankly, I’d be shocked if you’d walked away from nightmares she implied  _ without _ anything to show for it…”

He had a thought that made one side of his mouth quirk and her brows draw together in a mix of amusement and resigned interest.

“Please tell me you’ve seen  _ Deadpool _ ?” he asked.

She snorted softly. “Why am I not surprised. Yes, I have.”

He took a step closer and gently brushed his fingers against the exposed skin of her upper arms as he met her eyes with his most charming smile. “They’re still a set I’d be  _ proud _ to motorboat.”

A grin twitched at her lips a fraction of a second before she inhaled in shock, then barked out a surprised laugh. And when she shoved his chest, he pulled her with him by her arms to keep their proximity from changing. 

“You are just-” she began unsuccessfully. Then huffed. “Incorrigible!”

He watched her in the partial light as the subtle tension left her shoulders. Once she’d wiped the tears of mirth from her eyes, he winked.

“How well do I have to balance the gentleman and eager suitor cards tonight, Miss Granger?” he asked, still grinning. “So I don’t get myself in trouble.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’d rather we played the ‘grown-ups with a full command of the English language’ cards, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Lovely,” he said. “Then I can be assured that you know I’m not only here to get you out of this delightful little number.”

She hummed her agreement.

“And I can also be assured that you won’t think ill of me for wanting a proper view of you in the full light before we head to dinner.”

She tilted her head at him. “I assumed you’d want a three-sixty spin that slowed down at the one-eighty mark so you could take in the view from behind at your leisure.”

“See? We work well together professionally and in our personal lives.” 

She playfully shoved him again. “Let go so you can stare at my ass. And feed me.”

He took a few steps back and down onto the path for a better angle, while she stepped into the light, descended the few porch steps, and let him admire the silky shimmer highlighting her curves. 

She was a damn fine sight. 

“You’re a vision,” he told her. “Thank you for blessing me with your image. Now, if I may pay my respects as per the lady’s request?”

She swatted him on the arm as he led her to the car and gave him a look when he opened her door for her. A look that quickly bled into amused understanding when the asymmetrical skirt rode up her thighs as she took her seat.

“Fiend,” she called him.

“If you didn’t want my attention, you wouldn’t have worn the dress,” he said. 

She stuck her tongue out at him as he walked around the front of the car. It was an endearingly out of character response to a called bluff. It endeared him more than he expected it to.

Tom started the car, pulled away from her place, and turned on the playlist he’d made for her at lunch as they began the drive to the restaurant he’d chosen. 

“They’re mostly real, by the way,” she said after a few comfortable moments of silence.

He glanced at her side of the car briefly, and found her pensively staring out of the passenger window. “The twins?”

She snorted. “Yes. The um...damage and malnutrition weren’t kind. After refeeding and putting weight back on, I still needed a reconstruction.”

Tom shrugged. “Surgically perfect tits, a smart mouth, and concerns over...what exactly?” he asked. “I don’t care if you asked them to bump you a few cup sizes while they were at it, Hermione. You’ve seemed perfectly happy with your figure until tonight. Proud of it, in fact. As you should be, little minx, you’ve knocked the whole department on their arses. And I’m not the sort to be put off by that kind of thing.”

“I don’t do things by halves,” she said quietly. “So if you’re going to be put off by something I’d rather you do so now.”

Tom wracked his brain for a proper response for the rest of the drive, but ended up deciding that in this case his actions would speak louder. Still, when he pulled into a parking space at the restaurant, he sighed before quickly getting out of the car. She barely had her seatbelt off when he opened her door.

Her eyes were guarded as he offered her his hand and helped her to her feet. He didn’t hear the door shut.

“You fascinate me more than anything, Granger,” he murmured, right before he pressed her back against the car and kissed her.

At least, it was meant to just be a kiss. Not that he was at all disappointed when her tongue teased the seam of his lips. Even if snogging against his car wasn’t supposed to happen until  _ after _ dinner, he’d fucking take it.

A taunting whistle from bystanders down the street caught his attention, making Tom sigh internally and slow down. He didn’t open his eyes until he got one more satisfying nibble of her plump, and now swollen, lower lip, but was pleased to see his thoughts mirrored in her eyes.

She licked her lips hesitantly. “A bit out of order,” she quipped.

“I’ll be very disappointed if there’s no repeat performance later,” he teased. “Now quit ruining my plans to be a gentleman and let me feed you.”

She laughed, straightened her dress a tad, and took his hand as they walked inside.

Tom was equal parts smug and irritated when he noticed their host’s quick, almost-subtle appreciation of his date. He’d have to get used to that, surely, if she became his, of course.

To his surprise, Granger deferred to him for wine and appetizer selection. He made a fair guess at her likes based on the few conversations they’d shared that weren’t work-related, and was pleased when she gave him a sly grin over her menu.

“You  _ are _ an observant one, aren’t you?”

House-recommended Rosé and bacon deviled eggs. He’d keep sweet wines available at his apartment. Maybe he’d make her boiled eggs in the morning.

“Am I supposed to believe that little tidbit about your friend’s wedding appetizers wasn’t planted on purpose?” he parried.

“It wasn’t actually,” she said innocently. “I realized after that conversation that I’d essentially admitted to liking sweet wines and anything breakfast related. But it’s not like I knew you’d bring me here.”

Tom hummed to himself. “Of course not. A nod from fate, perhaps.”

She gave him another look over the top of her menu that he returned as he sipped his wine. 

When was the last time he’d had so much fun spending time with another person who wasn’t at his mercy and begging for their lives? The only thing he wanted to hear Granger beg for was his -

“I think I know what I want,” his date announced, folding and setting aside her menu confidently. 

Tom watched in amused surprise and she brought her hands together and rested them atop the table, the action causing her arms to push her breasts together slightly, which he might not have noticed if not for the enticing neckline of her dress.

He took in a slow, deep breath through his nose and brought his wineglass back to his lips.

“Is that so?” he asked with a smile. “I was just contemplating the same thing.”

“An ambitious man like yourself must have many desires,” Hermione said thoughtfully.

Tom let a slow, charming smile grace his lips. “I have an eternal craving for knowledge…” he offered coyly. “For example, at the moment I’m just aching to know what sort of things stunning, country-renowned detectives occupy themselves with in their free time.”

Granger scoffed, but the faint blush tinting her cheeks bellied her true thoughts on his flirting.

“I can hardly speak for  _ all of us _ ,” she began, her gaze on her wine glass, “But  _ some _ of us enjoy reading, spending time with our cat, Netflix, and trying to solve episodes of  _ Cold Case Files _ before the theatrical reenactment.”

He chuckled. “Honestly, darling, don’t you get enough crime solving from your day job?”

She shrugged, glancing at him through her lashes. “I like puzzles.”

“I’ll bring wine  _ and _ an extra complicated jigsaw as a hostess gift the first time I’m invited over for dinner then.”

Granger suppressed a lap by biting her glossy bottom lip. He was shocked there was any gloss left after their snogging session against the car. “Nightscapes, fall, and winter scenes are my favorite sort of puzzles.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” said Tom. “Lots of repeat shapes, textures, and colors to make putting it all together more difficult? Of course a woman like you would be up for challenges everywhere in her life.”

“I could say the same about you,” she parried. The undercurrent of calculation was back in her eyes. “A forensic savant that isn’t socially stunted or otherwise ostracized from the general population? Forgive me for stereotyping, but you really don’t line up with the sort of men I’ve met who have even remotely similar skill sets to yours.”

Tom sat back against the booth and eyed her curiously. “I suppose we’re two anomalies in a pod, aren’t we? You don’t exactly match your own stereotype either.”

“No,” she said. After a beat, she smiled at him again, and her eyes lightened. “I suppose I don't.”

Tom returned her smile. He could get used to this. He  _ wanted _ to get used to this, in fact. Maybe even more than he realized.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not 100% sure what I'm doing with next chapter. (I haven't decided if there's enough content to continue a full play by play of the date or just skip to the end.) But I feel like there's definitely some sort of important conversation they need to have before the night ends. I just need to think on it more.
> 
> Now I've already decided the answer to this question, but I have to ask for the fun of it: What do you lot think - sex on the first date? Why or why not? It won't change my plans, but I'm curious what you guys think is plausible/appropriate form the reader's viewpoint.
> 
> xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> A very happy birthday to the best alpha/beta/editor in chief/bean/bestie/soul mate ever - Meggie <3 
> 
> Enjoy the demented nonsense that is this plot bunny you enabled and are entirely responsible for. ;)


End file.
